Faouzia didn’t wait for Faust to return to the grove. She moved with quiet purpose, her steps soundless on the soft earth. Her astronomancy pulsed faintly at the edge of her awareness, but it wasn’t the stars she was tracking tonight. She slipped through the shadows, her gaze fixed on Margaretta and Mephistopheles as they strolled along the riverbank, their laughter carrying softly on the breeze.

She told herself it was to protect Margaretta, to find proof of Mephistopheles’ deception. But as she watched them, hidden among the twisted branches, the lie began to unravel. Her stomach twisted as Margaretta leaned into the devil’s warmth, her dark hair catching the moonlight like silk. The way Mephistopheles looked at her—intense, adoring, utterly unguarded—was unbearable.

It should be me. Not her.

The thought struck like a thorn. Faouzia clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as she tried to push it away. This wasn’t about her. It couldn’t be. But no matter how fiercely she fought it, the truth wormed its way to the surface.

She wasn’t jealous of Mephistopheles’ hold over Margaretta because she feared for her cousin. She was jealous of the way Margaretta made him feel—and of how he made Margaretta feel in return.

She focused on Mephistopheles, hoping to find something to justify her feelings. His charm was infuriating in its subtlety—the way he brushed a lock of hair from Margaretta’s face, the way he bent closer when she laughed, his every gesture natural and unforced.

Faust had never moved like that. Faust’s love had always been wrapped in conditions, tangled in his endless need to analyze her every word, her every choice. His care wasn’t a comfort; it was a weight she carried. Faust didn’t adore her the way Mephistopheles adored Margaretta.

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Her lips pressed into a thin line as Mephistopheles reached into the folds of his coat and drew out a delicate necklace. The pendant—a vial filled with shimmering pink salt—caught the moonlight, glinting like a star.

Margaretta gasped softly as he fastened it around her neck, his molten gaze never leaving her face. “Do you like it?” he asked, his voice low, rich.

“It’s beautiful,” Margaretta murmured, brushing her fingers against the pendant. “But why give me something so precious?”

“Because you’ve given me something more precious still,” he replied, his tone unguarded. “You’ve given me yourself.”

Faouzia’s breath hitched, a sharp ache blooming in her chest. The way Margaretta looked at him—pure, unfiltered adoration—was a knife twisting in her gut.

Faust could never make me feel that way.

Her thoughts turned bitter, sharp as the acacia thorns in her satchel. Once, she had admired Faust’s brilliance, the way he commanded attention with his alchemy, his cleverness, his unrelenting will. But he wasn’t that man anymore. He had given it all up for her—his craft, his confidence, the spark that made him more than ordinary.

And what had he become? A shadow. A weakling. A man without power, without purpose.

She hated the way she resented him for it. Hated that she had wanted him to give up alchemy, only to find herself disgusted by the empty shell left behind. Mephistopheles, on the other hand, radiated power. There was nothing uncertain about him, nothing diminished.

A branch snapped beneath her weight, jolting her out of her spiraling thoughts. Mephistopheles’ head snapped up, his fiery gaze cutting through the darkness like a blade.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice sharp and commanding.

Panic flared in Faouzia’s chest. She turned and fled, her breath ragged as she tore through the grove. Her satchel caught on a low-hanging branch, spilling acacia thorns across the ground, but she didn’t stop.

When she reached the outskirts of the city, she braced herself against a cold stone wall, her chest heaving as she tried to calm her racing thoughts.

Margaretta is blind. She doesn’t see him for what he is—a devil, a corrupter of souls.

But even as she repeated the thought, it rang hollow. Because the truth that clawed at her, as undeniable as the stars above, was that she wasn’t only running to save Margaretta.

She was running from the realization that Margaretta had everything she had ever wanted—and that Faust would never be the man who could give it to her.